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“Christ,just when you think you’ve seen it all.” Officer Hartwell shook his head, giving the crime scene a wide berth. He told himself it was so he didn’t contaminate the scene, but in all honesty, he didn’t want to get any closer than he had to. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he covered his mouth and nose, trying to block out the smoke. The DCFD response had been swift and overwhelming, easily containing the fire from destroying the entire building. However, Hartwell wasn’t in a hurry to breathe in the ash filled air and fumes from the still smoldering wreckage.

Thankfully, the fire hadn’t reached the corpse he now stood over.

“So, this is normal?” Officer Lennox questioned.

Hartwell shrugged at his new partner. “This is D.C. I’m not sure normal is a vocab word here.”

Each case Hartwell worked made it harder to remember why he’d joined the Metro Police to begin with. If his green around the gills partner was looking for reassurance or handholding, his assignment would be short. But that was a good thing. Better to know if Lennox was cut out for MCVU sooner than later.

Hartwell was new to the specialized department himself. His first case with the Major Case Victims Unit was the now infamous Card Killer case; a task force cluster fuck that had ended and catapulted careers. He’d been lumped with the latter; finding himself appointed as head of MCVU.

It wasn’t a title he’d ever hoped to achieve.

When Hartwell joined the force, it was to help protect and serve his community. He had no aspirations of calling the shots or leading a team, yet here he was doing both. His wife’s voice echoed in his head. “Not wanting the job makes you perfect for it.”

Hartwell knew power hungry people were the least equipped to handle power. He might be right for the role, but it still made him uncomfortable. Just as uncomfortable as the strange murder weapon lying next to the mangled corpse of the prominent politician.

Two Metro PD officers approached. “What do you make of this?” the older officer asked, nodding to the weapon.

“Colombo over here thinks it’s a machete,” the younger officer mocked. “I told him it’s a karambit. Had one just like it when I was in Afghanistan.”

“It’s neither,” Hartwell grumbled, kneeling to get a closer look.

“Then what is it?” Lennox asked, peering over his shoulder.

“It’s a sickle,” Hartwell answered, his stomach churning as he remembered the last place he’d seen one.

All three officers stared at Hartwell, a mix of disbelief and dread on their faces.

“A sickle? Like some Grim Reaper shit?” Lennox asked.

Hartwell stood and checked his watch. There was no chance of catching the game now. Thanks to the mutilated body of Congressman Norton Hayes and a medieval weapon, his night, no make that nights, were no longer his own. Sighing, he stomped off toward his car.

“Are you sure it’s a sickle?” Lennox asked, jogging to catch up.

“Yep.” Hartwell didn’t feel the need to elaborate. He did his best not to think about the Card Killer case, but the twisted tarot card images were seared into his memory. A skeleton welding an ancient, curved blade wasn’t something easily forgotten. So yeah, he was sure.

“That’s a bold choice for a murder weapon.” Lennox continued. “What do you think it means?”

“No, idea, but I know someone who will have a few thoughts.” Hartwell pulled out his phone. “It looks like we’ll be calling the Witch Doctor.”